Closed Eyes
by Pvt. Bear
Summary: This is a pre-Laramie short story. The short story portrays a life event of a beloved character. I hope you enjoy.
He lay on top of the barn with a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. Above, the constellations of Canes Venatici and Lupus glistened in the night sky. In the distance the bellow of cows echoed across the prairie. He could smell the smoke slowly billowing from the chimney, the smell of cedar penetrating the night sky. His eyes slowly closed as the breeze blew threw his hair.

Dirt flew in his face and screams echoed across the field. He breathed slowly and opened his eyes. Staring back was a young, bloody reminisce of what looked to be a face. The piercing blue eye stared at him, the pupil blown, not moving as he closed his eyes again. Beneath him the ground rumbled as if a herd of wild horses approached. He turned his head to the left and watched as brown shoes and bare feet moved as if in slow motion up a blood soaked hill. Over the roar of rifles firing the captains could be heard shouting orders. Down his face he felt the slow, warm stream of blood. It started from his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and down across his lips. He closed his eyes again as a cannon shell burst in front of him.

On top of the barn, he slept until the sound of coughing awoke him. Beside the mill his old man worked. Every day he slaved over a hot stove mending wagon wheels and horseshoes. The old man had lost his wife three years prior attempting to give the family another son. Behind the house, beside a well lay two graves, his wife and his daughter; both covered with fresh flowers. He climbed down from the barn roof and walked into the house. From a closet door, he grabbed a pack, his rifle, and a small bag of lunch from the day prior. When he stepped outside he saw his old man sitting at the mill, working on the latest wagon wheel brought to them. He walked up to the old man, knelt down, and spoke to him. Their eyes met, tears filling both of them. The old man put his tools down, stood up and hugged his son. Their embrace seemed to last forever. He closed his eyes and whispered to the old man.

It was a hand on the back that brought his eyes to open. He lay still as the hand rolled him over. He saw another pair of blues eyes staring at him, they seemed rough at first, but then showed pain. He reached toward the stranger's canteen in hopes the man would give him water. As the cool water hit his throat, he could not help the cough that followed. The stranger smiled, his white teeth glistened in the sun's setting rays. The stranger helped him into a sitting position. The field was littered with bodies from both sides; blood streaming down the hill. He looked himself over and found no other injuries except for the one on his head. He looked at the stranger, the stranger looked at his wound. He stood up slowly, grabbed his rifle, shook the hand of the stranger and started toward his lines. He looked back only once. He smiled at the stranger and waved a thanks. He thought of how his old man would want to meet that stranger and shake that man's hand for saving the life of his last remaining child. He took a step forward, a sharp pain tore through his chest. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide. Behind him he could hear the stranger yelling. He saw the gleam from a rifle far off in the trees. Another pain in his chest, but this one didn't hurt as bad. He fell forward, feeling the blades of grass lick his face. The stranger was now pulling him onto his back. He looked into the blue eyes and watched as they teared up. The stranger's black hair fell onto his face. He dug into his pockets and grabbed a piece of paper. Slowly he wrote down the town, in which lay four miles, from his home. Within the paper he placed a watch and slowly pushed it toward the stranger. He didn't trust a lot of men that wore gray, but he trusted this stranger. He felt the blood fill his mouth and trickle from the corner. He knew his old man would understand when the stranger would tell him what occurred this day. His mind drifted. He was on the roof, staring at the stars one again. He saw them clear as day as he closed his eyes one last time.

Outside the town, just about four miles away lay three buildings; a barn, a mill, and a house. The barn's roof had holes from where the rotting wood gave way. Old wagon wheels hung on the sides of the walls of the mill. Inside, the coals lay cold covered in ash and dust. In front of the house an old rocking chair moved with the breeze, front to back, as if a person was currently sitting. Logs sat in the fireplace, dust covered the counters and furniture. Behind the house was a well that had caved in, due to poor maintenance. Beside the well a grave of a woman and daughter lay with wilting flowers. Beside them a new grave stone, one that was only a year old. It bore the name and death date of the old man.

The stranger knelt beside and whispered of what become of their son. The stranger dug a small hole and placed the watch inside. As the stranger stood up, he saw the small caravan of townspeople approaching the house. The townspeople were just sent the son's body. It was found on the battle field in an unmarked grave due to an anonymous tip. The stranger sighed as he walked back to his horse. The stranger grabbed his black hat and spurred his horse north in search of home, a new beginning.


End file.
